#except. living forever is just as lonely as growing old

[hawnks]

This is mine

This is what my brain sounds like btw. If u even care

[fictionadventurer]

Beauty and the Beast for the WIP game?

My only real attempt at writing poetry before this year happened during a stretch when I tried to write a Beauty and the Beast retelling in verse. I got about two-thirds of the way through before it fizzled out and languished forever unfinished.

When it comes to my recent novel-in-verse obsession, the simplest option would be to take another look at this work and try to finish it. There's a lot of terrible poetry in there, but there are some that are somewhat better than I remember. I can't claim to be a judge of what's good poetry, but some of these are readable, so I'll share some of them here.

The first set of semi-readable poems covers the first meetings between Beauty and the Beast. (These are all numbered, and I'm leaving the numbers in place to better differentiate between separate poems. I think the speaker in most of these is fairly clear from context, but just in case, I'll put the speaker's name in the title, too.)

VI. beauty and beast

he is every nightmare i’ve ever forgotten he is thunder and darkness and death he is fear with fangs he is beastly

she is every dream i’ve never dared for she is roses and sunlight and life she is hope with jewels she is beauty

*

VIII. beauty

the chair creaks when he sits

my knees quake when he speaks

the master laughs when i ask

when i will die

my ears doubt when i hear

my mind reels when i realize

the master wonders when i began

to think he’d kill me

IX. beast

the rules are these you are mistress of this castle the servants will obey your every whim the rooms and all within are yours including me

you will dine with me at dusk we will not speak if you want silence you will look at me and try not to scream

i will not harm a hair of your head i will not cause a moment’s worry you will do whatever you wish except leave

X. beauty

his mercy shatters my world makes it bigger and at the same time smaller

how can i live in a monster’s cage

my life will be long and lonely with him my friend and at the same time jailer

how can i look at a monster’s face

the castle teems with wonders that all belong to him and at the same time me

what do i do with a monster’s love

*

The next set of poems I feel like sharing starts with Beauty finding a portrait in the castle, and then leads into her sharing a dance with Beast that makes her kind of freak out over the fact that she might be falling in love.

XXII. beast

today you found a painting in a long-forgotten room covered in cobwebs and shrouded in dust

there was a reason it was lost

the portrait showed a man with a face like the dawn and eyes like the sea you thought he looked kind

he was young and a fool

you may keep it if you wish or lock it back in darkness it matters not to me i used to see him daily

i doubt i’ll see his face again

*

XXIV. beauty (and beast)

if rooms have souls the ballroom is wise a radiant beauty long past her prime

she treasures the days when she lived and was loved she keeps them and counts them like pearls on a string

(she is not the only one, my dear)

long past midnight in moonlight and hush this sleepwalking girl can glimpse former days

a flash of a gown and a whisper of waltz what glorious balls must this room have beheld

(they were marvelous indeed, my friend)

it seems a shame she grows old alone with nothing but darkness and dust held within

i would dance for her return the spark of life if only we had music and i had a partner

(i will gladly dance with you, my love)

XXV. beast

my dear beauty don’t you know i learned dancing long ago

one step closer take my hand with a waltz you’ll understand

let the music guide your feet in a dance that’s slow and sweet

hand in hand and heart to heart it’s not love but it’s a start

XXVI. beauty

he is hulking beastly

i am small delicate

i should be stumbling crushed

but

we marvelously miraculously dance

and it feels like flying

XXVII. beauty (to the portrait)

man on the wall i may be mad but i must give voice to the storm in my heart and you are the only one near

the master puzzles me i know his home as well as my own but i know so little about him

(is he beast or man or nightmare or dream or captor or friend)

i saw his face and thought him a beast

(but he grows roses and reads poems and has never killed or even raised his voice)

i heard his voice and thought him a monster

(but he spared my life gave me his home and all he owned offered his heart and never once has been anything but gentle)

i watched him dance and thought him a man

(with grace like an angel or a prince and i think that maybe he was not always so lonely and that his heart aches for things lost)

what am i to think do say be feel about him now

and why do these questions always come at midnight

*

The final poem is one that I had completely forgotten about, so I was shocked to find it lurking in the latter sections of the document and showing signs of using some decent imagery. By polishing up the last couple of lines, I've got something that's not half bad as a standalone poem.

This one occurs during an extended period when Beauty is still trying to process her feelings toward Beast and figure out if this is really love or if her feelings are being warped by isolation and close proximity.

XXX. beauty

if this is love it is a dark and grasping love a child stumbling in the night crying for a candle flame and cherishing the smallest spark of light

if this is love it is a bleak and desolate love a skeleton tree in a barren desert windbeaten and scrubbed to bone and bursting into bloom at the first drop of rain

if this is love it is a smoke and mirrors love a sleight of hand or trick of light that takes my broken heart and fools me into thinking he can make it whole

[the-and-sign-anon]

The Third Independent: 1

Word count: 2,910

Series Masterlist

Vash the Stampede x Independent Plant! Reader

Three Years Post-Fall

You couldn’t really remember the Big Fall, but you would never forget the fear of hiding in the desert afterward. You always got a sickening feeling when you saw the humans, traveling between settlements armed to the teeth. Every instinct you had told you to run, to hide, to make sure no one and nothing could hurt you. 

For a time, that worked out. You watched from the dunes as Plants were discovered and used for their power, helping the humans scrounge up some kind of living. The Worms were your friends for a time; they seemed to enjoy the way you sat in silence most days, occasionally humming a song as old as your soul. If pressed, you could never say where it came from, but it was seared into your mind forever, so you taught it to the Worms and let the deserts of Noman’s Land sing like your people. 

The first time you allowed yourself true curiosity with the humans was when you spotted a pair riding tomas in the fading daylight. Something in you reached out, almost calling to them. For just a moment, one of the figures reacted, pulling their mount to a short stop as their head swiveled every which way. You ducked down behind the dunes, one hand over your chest as if to calm your racing heart. 

Despite your better judgment, you peeked back out at them after a minute, finding them moving once more, albeit at a slower pace. You followed for hours, brushing off the bugs that tried to shuffle you away. You’d made up your mind and you intended to find out what these humans were doing. 

As the stars lit up the sky and the desert wind grew cold, you focused in on the increasingly loud song of another Plant. How the humans had figured out how to follow one, you had no clue. But that was exactly where they were headed. You hopped along from dune to dune, ducking down whenever one of the humans looked around. Eventually, you took a chance and got close enough to catch a few words exchanged between them. 

“Kid, you’re freaking me out again. Quit doing that.”

“I’m telling you Brad, there’s something out there.”

“Yeah. Worms. And if we keep stopping every time you think you feel something, they’ll eat us.”

You scoffed softly despite yourself. The Worms just wanted food, same as anyone. Except you, which you supposed you were grateful for. Food was hard to come by out here, especially when hiding between slowly growing towns. It was a lonely existence, but not a starving one at least. 

The ‘kid’ whirled around to look in your direction and you dropped down to the sand once more. You cursed yourself for being so brazen and prayed that he’d just keep moving. After a few moments of silence, you slowly got to your feet and started moving again. If these humans were headed for a Plant, you wanted to know exactly what they intended to do with it. So you focused your mind on the voice and followed as quickly and discreetly as you could manage. 

The Plant you found was alone. There was no town, no bustling settlement. Just a few chunks of a fallen ship half buried in the sand. You crept in, your bare feet sliding silently across the unfamiliar, smooth metal. The old signs of humans felt wrong somehow, a broken reminder of what your people had been through in the Big Fall. It made your heart ache, even though you still couldn’t remember a thing about your own experience. 

When you reached the Plant, you dropped to your knees and pressed your forehead to the glass. Everything in you sang with joy at seeing one of your own kind for the first time you could actually remember. Your hands pressed to the glass as well and you couldn’t have fought off the tears if you’d tried. Your blurred vision lit up blue as your own Plant lines appeared in response to the Plant inside. 

You weren’t sure how long you’d been there when the humans arrived. Brad led the way, keeping a sharp eye out for any danger. His charge followed with a furrowed brow, trying to sort out what the strange feeling here was. He was about to mention it to Brad again when they reached you and the Plant. 

Vash was quick to grab Brad’s gun and lower it when he pointed it at you. While he usually deferred to Brad, he gave a firm shake of his head this time and stepped forward. His clunky boots gave him away as he watched your shoulders tense up. 

“If you’re here to hurt them, I won’t let you.”

He raised his hands slowly and Brad grudgingly stepped back. 

“The last thing we want is to hurt a Plant.”

You slowly rose to your feet, your lines lighting up the space around you. Vash, had he not known any better, could have sworn you were an angel. He was sure his lines never looked quite like that. He kept his hands up and offered his most well meaning smile. 

“We’re here to catalog them, then try to get them somewhere safer.”

You tilted your head and waited for him to explain. 

“They… they won’t make it much longer alone. You can hear it too, can’t you?” You nodded just slightly. “There’s a settlement nearby that could use another Plant.. and this one could clearly use some humans.”

His words rang true to you, though you weren’t entirely sure why. As far as you knew, you didn’t need humans. You’d never even been this close to them in what you could remember of your life. So why did other Plants need them?

“... You’re a Plant too… aren’t you?”

He obviously knew the answer, but he was trying to gauge if you knew it. You didn’t seem to realize he was, despite his clear connection to the other Plants. When you took half a step back and pressed your back to the glass, he motioned for Brad to give you a little extra space as he circled around to reach another side of the glass. Once he was close enough, he reached out a hand and felt his own lines begin to glow. 

Your eyes widened in surprise, shimmering with more tears as your lines grew brighter. The Worms spoke to you in their own way, telling you stories of the humans, but they’d never told you there were others like you. You’d never let yourself dream that there could be. 

“You…”

“I’m what’s called an Independent. That’s what you are, too. Why don’t you come with us? You can help us take this Plant to their new home.”

Brad tried to protest, then thought better of it. If Luida’s stray wanted to pick up his own stray, there was little he could do about that right now. 

“What will happen to them?”

“They’ll live longer than if we don’t move them. They’ll be with another Plant too, so they won’t have to be alone anymore. And the humans will take good care of them.”

You’d never allowed yourself to get too close to the humans for fear of them attacking what they wouldn’t understand, but if this other Plant- this Independent- trusted them, then maybe you could too. Just when Vash worried you might put up a fight or run off, you nodded softly and locked eyes with him. 

“I will accompany the Plant, Independent.”

He smiled sweetly and scratched the back of his neck. 

“You can just call me Vash.”

You nodded firmly and looked over to Brad.

“And the human?”

“That’s Brad. He’s safe, you can trust him.”

“I will trust you, Vash.”

With that, you helped take hold of the Plant and rig it to be pulled by the tomas. You declined the offer to ride with Vash, opting instead to run alongside the Plant itself. Dozens of bugs fluttered along with you, bobbing up and down and circling around your new companions as well. 

It took more than an hour to reach the town, but you were only a bit winded when you all arrived. Brad led the way, the tomas moving at a much slower pace as the handful of townspeople awake at such an hour parted to make space. You trailed behind, watching your surroundings with a critical eye. Vash nearly veered of course as he continuously looked back at you, taking in your bare feet and tattered clothing. Brad had to lean over and lightly smack his arm to get his attention. 

“Quit staring at them, kid. Someone might get the impression you’re interested in them.”

Vash looked at him with one brow raised. 

“I am interested in them. Since the crash, I haven’t seen another Independent. They’re the first one in five years. Who wouldn’t be interested?”

Brad chuckled despite himself and shook his head. Leave it to the plant boy to misunderstand him. He eased the tomas to a stop when they reached the plant room and dismounted. You kept a hand on the Plant as Vash removed the ropes keeping it in place and Brad talked with another man. You ignored the conversation and opted to stare at Vash instead. 

You weren’t entirely sure why you hadn’t understood immediately what he was when you first saw him. As you studied his features in the starlight and scarce lamps in town, you felt the same pull to him that you’d always felt when you neared Plants. Though he could hide it from humans, you could faintly see his Plant lines regardless of his current focus. 

His hands were calloused, a worker’s hands. You could appreciate that, finding another similarity between you. The clothing he wore looked a bit large on him; not that you were one to talk. You quickly figured you would have an easier time hiding in the sand if you had clothing to match, so you’d dug around a few crash sites in your time. It saddened you to steal from corpses, but they weren’t using anything anymore. So you’d adopted loose tan pants, a dirty -possibly once white- tank top, and a piece of rope to act as a belt when your first one wore out. 

Vash couldn’t focus properly on his work with you looking at him like that. Brad, in their earlier days together, had made comments about the Independent seeming creepy. Luida always told him Brad was just being rude for no reason, but if he looked the way you did, then Vash could understand where the man was coming from. 

Your eyes were large, almost unsettlingly so. You didn’t seem to blink as often as the humans did, allowing you to focus more intently on things that caught your interest. Like Vash. While he worked, you stood stock still, almost like a predator watching its prey. Your chest didn’t even seem to move as you breathed, not that he was observing you that closely on purpose. 

None of the humans moved to approach you, having been told firmly by Brad not to do so. He didn’t know exactly where you’d come from or how long you might have been with this Plant, so he wasn’t in the mood to risk anyone getting hurt. Vash motioned for you to follow them all inside, which you slowly did. Brad and the humans got to work preparing the Plant to be set up properly while you and Vash both placed a hand on the glass and appeared to… connect with it. He’d never quite get used to seeing that. 

By morning light, you were ready to go. You unabashedly cried when you had to say goodbye to the Plants. Brad would have been content enough to let you stay there if you were so fond of them, but Vash spared him a pleading look and invited you to join them at their ship without waiting for an answer from him. 

You thought about it at the edge of town, bugs fluttering around you as you dug one heel into the sand. With a spark of something Brad considered dangerous and Vash considered exciting, you agreed. After some convincing, you let Vash hoist you up onto his toma before settling behind you. His arms were slow to move on either side of you, extra conscious of your personal space, but you didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. 

Brad led the way back to Ship Three. It was a bit of a long journey, but he didn’t mind the silence that settled when you fell asleep. Vash was a bit panicked when it happened, trying to keep you from sliding off the toma without waking you as he wrapped his arms tighter around you. Your head rolled back and rested on one of his shoulders, leaving him as tense as he’d been in months. You stayed that way for nearly an hour before Brad brought the little troop to a stop and helped Vash rearrange you. He ended up dealing with you himself, making a simple little harness to keep you at his back so Vash could relax again. 

You slept for nearly an entire day, waking up halfway to Ship Three. When you blinked your eyes open and looked around, Brad stopped again for a short meal break. Something flashed in Vash’s eyes when you declined the food they offered, explaining that you didn’t need to eat. You were engrossed enough in talking to Brad that you missed the mourning in his gaze. 

When you finally reached the ship, Brad led the way in and straight to Luida. He grumbled at the look in her eyes, wishing he hadn’t let you come along with them if it meant her treating him like a softie. She offered you the room beside Vash’s and a cleaner set of clothes. You looked so out of place there, among metal and humans and artificial light. 

That first night, as Vash lay in his bed trying to sleep, he heard your voice. At first, it was a faint murmuring. Then it grew, slow and steady, to a song. He shot upright, his heart seizing in recognition. Vash carefully got to his feet and slipped through his door to stand in front of yours. After a moment of hesitation, he opened it, only to find your bed empty. He listened closer and turned, moving down the halls. 

You were standing in the Plant room, your hands pressed to the glass. Your lines were glowing again, making your messy hair look ethereal in his eyes. He slowly approached, feeling his own lines activate as he came within a few feet of you. When you spoke to him, the song seemed to continue, and it occurred to him later that it wasn’t coming from you, but from your very soul.

“Good evening, Independent Vash.”

“You should probably get some rest. It’s really late.”

“My sister was calling. I wanted to see her.”

You lowered to your knees, then sat cross legged. Your hands slowly withdrew from the glass, but your lines didn’t even dim. 

“How long have you been with these humans?”

“About three years. Brad and I spend a lot of time away though, finding the Plants.”

You digested that and let your eyes flicker to him for just a moment. 

“You are fond of them? The humans?”

“...I am. They help our kind live, just as much as we help them.”

“I haven’t met a live human before… I’ve always kept my distance.”

“You were on another ship, right? Do you remember which one?”

“The oldest thing I can remember is waking up in the dunes surrounded by the Worms. They taught me how to survive, helped me find a few wrecks to search for clothing. I don’t even know how I know I’m not human.”

Vash wasn’t quite sure what to do with you. You deserved to have people who loved you. You deserved a safe place to call home. But you didn’t even have childhood memories to look back on like he did. 

“We should really go to bed.”

“I don’t like my room. It’s too quiet. And empty.”

Right. You lived with the worms. Wherever you went, there were thousands of them you could connect with. It’s likely you’d never been this alone before.

Vash offered you a hand, which you took with a quizzical expression. He led you back to your rooms, then went into his without a word. Just when you were ready to turn and go back to the Plants, he returned with his blanket and pillow.

“Let’s have a sleepover. I can sleep on the floor in your room. If it helps, then we can take turns moving forward.”

You followed him into your room, completely barren and sterile. No wonder you weren’t comfortable there. To Vash’s surprise, you swiftly grabbed your blanket and pillow, then flopped down on the floor where your old clothes rested and made yourself a little nest. 

“You take the bed. I like the ground.”

You left no room for argument, instead tucking your head down and shutting your eyes. Vash tentatively walked around you and laid down on your bed. He tried to stay awake until he knew you were resting, but he drifted off quickly at the sound of your inner song.

[heebiejeebiesart]

Maybe I'm just hurting lots because of the g5 comic, but it really got me thinking...

Out of all the Mane 6 besides Twilight, I do think Fluttershy would have the most realistic reason to become immortal!!

Why?

Purely because of Discord!

The whole argument of "watching everyone you love grow old and die," well....she wouldn't have to worry about that with Discord???

Yes, there's the exception of her family, specifically her *younger* brother, her other friends, her animals pals...

But, thing is, I really don't think she'd crumble from all the loss. Home girl works with animals, she's definitely dealt with death and grief before.

And I also think Twilight would benefit! Having at least one of her best friends by her side would alleviate some of the pain of Twilight's lonely fate. That would be the kind thing to do.

And yes, you might be thinking that iconic line "Who wants to live forever?" Certainly not anyone with a mortal spouse like RD and AJ, Pinkie and Cheese, need I go on?

Immortality doesn't have to be this tragic thing of angst and anguish people always make it out to be.

Fluttershy would go on seeing the beauty of life for an eternity, continuing to help all creatures big and small, and staying by Discord's side.

Dhhdjskdj rant of a poor shippers heart over🫠

[lennadanvers]

Come cry with me. Today's menu is...

Eddie Munson's double heartbreak

The first time Eddie's heart breaks is at the end of the last year of highschool, when he finds out it's your last year, but not his.

All he can think about is how he is just not good enough. If he was, he'd have finished school at the first try. He'd have a future, bright, unexplored and far, far away from Hawkins right at his feet. If he was good enough, he'd be leaving with you. Hoping to share an apartment would be way too much to wish for, but he could be dreaming of living close to each other. He could be planning all the different ways he to run into you, like at the laundromat, even though he wouldn't need to, because you'd keep spending as much time together as you did up until then.

Deep down, he doesn't feel good enough to be a reason for you to stay, either. Is he better than the big city; wide, modern and free from Hawkins' suffocating routine? No, he's not. He's pretty fresh for a town like this one, but out there? Out there you have freedom. You can find something better to do than hang out in a small trailer, better places to go than the only record store in the area, and more interesting people than him.

But he's not bad enough to ask you to stay, either. Or to let the abyss that grows in his chest with every piece of tape he puts on your moving-too-fucking-far-away boxes show. So he jokes, maybe a little more than usual, a little more bitter than normal. He tells you stories of what you're going to find out there- with the same reality-fantasy ratio as his D&D campaigns. Takes deep breaths whenever you laugh, and, if he sneacked an old recorder to keep some of your giggles for later, could you blame him? Would you get mad if you knew the t-shirt that you thought was lost in the move is under his pillow to this day? Maybe you'd forgive him if you saw the way Eddie hugs it, pretending it's you, careful not to stain it with his tears. If you understood how lonely, empty, lost and completly unworthy he feels.

The second time Eddie's heart breaks is years later. He's prepared this time. He's had a lot of time to picture the moment you set foot in Hawkins again. To fear you never did. To dread you did, with someone at your side.

Being prepared doesn't help.

After all those years- now that your shirt has lost some of its color, and every trace of your scent- he stumbles upon you in the laundromat. Just like he had pictured in highschool, you're not looking at the door. There's an empty basket on top of the dryer, and a bottle of detergent they don't sell at Melvald's General Store. Some fancy, extravagant scent, he's sure, and Eddie has never felt such an intense hatred for an object, except, perhaps, for the moving truck that took you away.

He trips over the flower pot that's been at the door forever, and you turn around.

It takes a stupid second to click. Then the familiar look floods your eyes, and Eddie feels the kick to his chest. Your smile is brighter, somehow. Less playful. Calmer. Those expression lines are new. Your eyebrows are more defined, which makes you look gorgeous in a foreign way. You're wearing make up, lips can't naturally change color in such a drastic way, and how bad would it be if he stepped closer and wiped the lipstick off? Your clothes are also different. Your legs. Your hair. You've changed.

You've grown.

He blinks to the side, the same old Eddie staring back at him from the reflection on the window. Maybe a little paler than usual, but still.

Eddie looks back at you, and the heartbreak settles yet again in his chest. Because, even tough you run up to hug him, it doesn't feel right. You don't smell like you, but like the detergent imported from your new life. The version of you that came back is not the one that left. He realizes he doesn't know you anymore when his arms tangle awkwardly around you. It sucks.

Because he still loves you, despite all the years and the pain.

Because you'll never come back; and it's too late for him to go after you. He should have done that years ago.

[mac-audcheese]

so i’ll probs draw this later but i came up w some things for the garroth levin hc mkayy

so i don’t remember who said garroth would be levins dad but their idea was the old lords wife was lonely and sought comfort in garroth, leading to an affair that resulted in levin

i think when aphmau found levins mom, she actually told her levin was the father hoping they could have some relationship (side eye), so when aphmau returned, she told garroth and zoey but no one else so the villagers didn’t see them as a couple. garroth would have a hard time processing this as he has no memories of the last lord but would happily accept levin as a son. despite having to keep it a secret he’d absolutely adore taking care of him, happy to have a real son esp after zenix runs away.

unfortunately after the whole betrayal thing, no one has any idea garroth was at fault, so they all imagined him to be a fallen hero along with the group that disappeared with him. levin would grow up to admire garroth, even more so once zoey revealed that he was his father, swelling levin with pride that his parents had been so beloved by everyone. he’d work so hard to be just like garroth - attempting his sword techniques, having similar personality traits, protecting his loved ones to the best of his abilities just to imagine how proud garroth would feel if he’d seen him following in his footsteps.

this would not last forever, of course, after aphmau comes back from the irene dimension 15 years later. almost as soon as he’d see aphmau walking through the rebuilt village of phoenix drop, levin would ask where garroth was as well. aphmau, not yet processing all that has happened, would shakily explain the situation to her family, more so trying to make sense of it all than ruin fantasies, and would in turn absolutely shake levin to his core. how could his idol, his father, have done this to his mom and everyone around him? how could he ruin so many lives, just because his mom didn’t feel the same way?

levin would be sick, this would violate his entire being. for a long time i don’t even think he could look in the mirror without seeing the man who took away his entire childhood. who was he? i think this would prompt him to change his entire identity, from his hair to his morals, just so he didn’t have to feel like that monster. he’d like to be more like aphmau, but levin doesn’t even know her, only stories zoey had told him since childhood that gave him some sort of comfort in identity. except now, he can’t relate to either of his parents in any sort of way, completely stripping the hopes and dreams he once had.

in the end i think the only people he’d truly consider family would be zoey and malachi, as they were the only two to be there for him when he needed it. even with his real mom back in his life she’d still venture off and leave him alone a lot, so instead of letting this hurt him, he’d silently cut her off to keep peace of mind. malachi and zoey would definitely disagree with this, but they can both understand where he’s coming from enough to let him make this decision. aphmau would have no knowledge and never would, just to keep her from trying too hard patch things up for his sake only. and garroth would be,,, absolutely dead to them. all of them.

shoutout to @laurencezvahlslefteyebrow for coming up w the garroth dad thing, i’m sure other ppl have brought it up before but their post so opened my eyes

[k-s-morgan]

︎This is the first time ever I'm writing to a writer as I'm a lil anxious about my English. But after many years of reading your flawless work (TGSTLTH), I really couldn't hold myself anymore; if I stay silent one more second, I'm going to explode from repressed emotions.XD

I'm absolutely going crazy over your storytelling. I think nobody -and I do mean NOBODY- was this close to perfection with the characterization of Sebastian and Ciel. It's like you are working together with Yana herself. You've really managed to catch every aspect of their relationship that made this whole storyline (manga and anime) the way it's been, which seems to be the entire reason why I still can't get over Kuroshitsuji. It's just so dark and dramatic... the bitter power struggle between these two and the way they compete for control —which is pretty entertaining to see when you think about it because both parties are unable to maintain any type of control or authority over the other.

From what I see, this fandom has mixed feelings about S2 of the anime. Some love it, some ignore its whole existence, and some people are okay with it. Unfortunately, I'm the second one. I like the story arcs that are canon to the manga. When I first started to read TGSTLTH, I really thought that fanfic would follow the storyline without S2 in it since you reflect the complexity of the bond they share as a human and demon so prettily. I've always wondered if Ciel, as-twelve-years-old brat, managed to become Sebastian's living hell, how much of a pain in the ass he would be as he grows older. And the plot has several unresolved mysteries that have not been addressed yet. That's why I'm not a big fan of S2; it closes off all the possible ways this story can go as its ending. However, you are the only one who could warm me up to S2; I trust you.

I read the snippets. It was surprising to see Ciel doubting his appearance. I was questioning whether his look-alike was truly superior or if it was just the circumstances influencing his perception. I feel like it's mainly his fear of not being good enough for Sebastian to stay. Which explains his continuous freak-out about the possibility of his soul being unworthy. And I clearly remember Sebastian thinking, "The boy wasn't nearly as pretty" upon seeing him.

Your talent is exceptional and beyond comparison. Please never stop writing. Stay safe...❤❤

B.

Ps. If my English is difficult to read or understand, please feel free to ignore this.

Hi! Please don't worry, your English is absolutely fine! I'm so happy you've been enjoying Those Gentle Slopes so much, and I'm honored that you feel like I did justice to Ciel and Sebastian. They are my favorite characters, and Ciel is probably my most favorite character ever, across all fandoms, so I really treasure the chance to work with them and get such lovely feedback from other readers.

With S2, yes, it created a lot of controversy in the fandom, but also yes, I love it with my whole heart! I always call it a love letter from Sebastian to Ciel. I do have some issues with it, like the exccessive sexualization in general and of Hannah in particular - it feels just awkward sometimes, but the main plot and especially the resolution make me ridiculously happy.

I agree that the bond between a demon and a human is fascinating. I enjoy exploring it a lot, and I so look forward to all the adventures Ciel and Sebastian will have. But I also think that it cannot go on like this forever: even if Ciel got older, sooner or later, something wuld have to give. He'd either die from old age, which would feel like a very underwhelming ending to me, or Sebastian would eat his soul likepromised - but then I'm sure we'd have ended up with the Red Valentine development, where he's lonely, miserable, and missing Ciel. The idea of Ciel becoming a demon in a way that puts such a strain on his relationship with Sebastian - it's like a new life for their bond. So many new conflicts and possibilities could emerge from it - new settings, new events, new power struggles. If you stick around, I really hope you'll like it! And I really appreciate your trust.

And yes, you're absolutely right, Ciel is prettier than his look-alike (at least from how I envision it). Sebastian probably overestimates the difference between them a bit because he's biased in Ciel's favor while Ciel is freaking out because he's been feeling insecure and unworthy for a while at this point, and learning about Sebastian's second contract was just the last blow. These two idiots…

Thank you for your wonderful ask again! I hope you enjoy the next chapter.

[lizbethborden]

Here's something I'm thinking about re: what happened with Natalie. Full disclosure that I have not really caught up; at this point I'm too upset. But something that I struggle with as the daughter of an addict from a family of addicts, as someone who has struggled with mental illness and suicidal ideation and knows many other people who have done the same, is the sense that Natalie's death was foreshadowed, inevitable; that this, ultimately, was her "purpose." Given that she talks about having had a "purpose" in the wilderness, first as hunter and protector, then as recognized leader and #AntlerQueen, she pins her struggle in the adult, civilized world on her purposelessness--what use is she? Why is she even there? Why is she alive? Every severely depressed, mentally ill, and/or addicted person knows this exact feeling. For Natalie, it is emphasized and contextualized by her chaotic, deeply codependent relationship with Travis, her despair and frantic wheeling-about after losing him, her eventual suicide attempt in which Lottie's cultists intervene. Of course, the writers of the show don't allow her to die in this scene; they preserve her for another season or so to die for a "better reason," to achieve a "purpose."

The problem with taking this tack--preventing a senseless suicide, giving her a "meaningful" death in the end--is that the final message becomes: the purpose and the goal for people struggling with addiction and mental illness--specifically for a woman who crystallizes many of the circumstances that occur most often with these profound struggles, that is, the daughter of an abusive home, victim from a very young age of misogynist sexualization, exposed to and unwilling participant in scenes of deeply affecting violence including her own father's death--the purpose, the goal, is her death. There is no other purpose, there is no other future for Natalie, except to die. I do not think this was a conscious message planted by anyone; but I do think it results from a failure of imagination, the inability to concretely realize a future for a person struggling with those issues that have plagued Natalie since childhood. Abused, manipulated, lonely, addicted girls live to die.

I feel that the show's emphasis--and frankly, the fandom's as well--on the arrested development of the women contributes to this. Natalie is not a little girl in the show. She is a grown woman played by Juliette Lewis, who is 50 years old, and she makes a grown woman's choices. The inability to imagine Natalie as an adult human being and the fetishization (manic-pixie-dream-antler-queen-ization?) of young Natalie derive, yes, from what I think are just wrong opinions (sorry!) but also from an inability to imagine her worldview and mindset beyond that of an 18-year-old girl. It is a condescending approach to say of an addicted person that they're just mentally a child and can't cope or understand like the rest of the grown-ups. This message is applied to the other YJs in various ways, but strikes a particularly hostile note when applied to Natalie. In the minds of the writers and the fandom, it seems, her aging was a mistake, her growing into adulthood was a mistake; her addiction, her mental illness, and her suicidality are all proofs of such, proofs that she has never been more than that terrified girl with the gun aimed at her father, and in order to keep her that way--to excise adult Natalie from the story, to keep Natalie, in-narrative, on-screen, forever, as the abused, manipulated, lonely, addicted little girl--she has been killed. But it's okay. That was always her purpose, right?

[evereverest2]

this post is directed at @sentientgolfball and golfball only bc it was too long to put in a text

if that doesn’t deter u just know ur about to be super confused unless ur golfball

IDC IF U DONT VIBE TO HURT BY JOHNNY CASH IM TELLING YOU ITS ABEL AND HERES WHY:

1) johnny cash is a cowboy and so is abel it’s perfect that’s it

jk

2) ok im gonna break down each fucking lyric

“I hurt myself today / To see if I still feel / I focus on the pain / The only thing that's real”

ok these are just the first lyrics but let me paint u a picture. imagine those centuries between anson and abel broke up and got back together, those tumultuous ~500 years. abel’s father is more than dead, he probably doesn’t have many friends, and even if he does he lives in orc town and orcs have a short lifespan. abel is immortal and he is lonely.

“The needle tears a hole / The old familiar sting / Try to kill it all away / But I remember everything”

dw the lyrics will get stronger but for now imagine instead of this “hurt” cash is putting on himself it’s abel “relapsing” by killing somebody. imagine he grows weak and just desires one comfort in his island of loneliness

“What have I become? / My sweetest friend / Everyone I know goes away / In the end”

what has he become in this period of lonelieness? a shell of that adventuring cowboy who saved the world with his bf, his bf, the god of love, who taught him what love meant. but he went away, and everyone died except him. in the end, everyone leaves.

“And you could have it all / My empire of dirt / I will let you down / I will make you hurt”

abel has nothing, just himself. his empire of dirt refers to having nothing truly valuable. i think i can see abel saying “i will make you hurt” as an admission of his weakness to his vampire half, that anyone he befriend will not only die anyway, but runs the risk of being killed by him if he gets too weak.

“I wear this crown of thorns / Upon my liar's chair / Full of broken thoughts / I cannot repair”

now i imagine that this isn’t HIS crown of thorns, but anson’s. imagine it’s something he once owned, a relic. these next few stanzas i like to imagine abel wandering an abandoned church of Anmori, looking at the idolatrine. his liar’s chair is anson’s, bc anson promised to be with him forever.

“Beneath the stains of time / The feelings disappear / You are someone else / I'm still right here”

oh my god bro. come on. YOU ARE SOMEONE ELSE, I AM STILL RIGHT HERE. anson is a GOD, doing his best for his people, and abel has no where else to go. god.

then there’s the chorus again and then

“If I could start again / A million miles away / I would keep myself / I would find a way”

i’ll let u interpret this one. what would abel do differently if he could?

ugh them bro them do yoU EVER THINK ABOUT THEM?? HOW ANGSTY THEY ARE??? BEFORE THEY MAKE EACH OTHER HAPPY AGAIN????

[dragonmasterhiccup]

Obviously it was the beard.

The little girl let out a burst of giggles, though she was trying to hide them, which was very much not working.

Pointing up at his beard, she attempted to voice that that was in fact why he looked so ‘silly,’ but she was unable to get any actual words out, having been laughing way to hard to the point where her face was turning red.

———

Danny was the kind of person to clear her entire plate, absolutely no exceptions. So she had no need to soak up any extra broth, she just drank it plain.

“Uh-huh!” she exclaimed, her voice muffled as she was currently pushing her tongue through the now empty hole in her mouth. “This one’ll grow back super fast though, I jus’ know it!”

———

“Twenties?! Hiccup, that’s old old! You have two numbers in your age— two! I’m only seven, that’s one number, and that means I’m still gonna be alive for a really long time! Not you though.” Wrapping her arms around Hiccup in a hug, she joked, “Make sure you don’t die when m’ still here, okay? ‘Cause you’re so old you might drop dead right in front of me.”

———

Danny’s smile was matching Valka’s as she opened the door. “Hi, Valka! I missed you!” she exclaimed, going over to hug her after she’d passed Zephyr over to Hiccup.

The young girl walked next to the older woman, sitting down next to her.

Chuckling, she interjected. “Yeah, he missed Zephyr lots. If it makes you feel better, I missed you lots!”

She nodded enthusiastically, opening her mouth and pointing to the spot that was now empty. “Yeah! I was eating a piece of mutton and then it jus’ fell out!”

Eyes darting around the hut, she asked, “So you live here? All by yourself? I, I mean, Hiccup’s sister has been gone forever, so aren’t you lonely? And Cloudjumper can’t fit inside, so…” Letting out a huff, she turned her gaze back to the older woman, a newfound look of determination plastered across her features. “You know what? Maybe I’ll come see you some more! Hiccup and Astrid are busy a lot, so maybe if they’re doing important village stuff, then I’ll come here!”

Her laughter was infectious, and he started laughing, as well.

------------

Laughing, he shook his head, hugging her back. "I'm not planning on dying anytime soon, so you have nothing to worry about."

"But you? Don't grow up too fast. Just enjoy being a kid, okay?"

-----------

Valka knelt down, hugging Danny back tightly. "I missed you too!"

Her eyes widened. "Mutton? Really?" She jokingly said, "It must have been a real tough piece of meat, to take your tooth like that, eh?"

Hiccup and Valka exchanged a look, hearing Danny's question.

She clasped her hands. "Well, she hasn't been gone very long yet, but I keep myself busy. Having little Zephyr here more does help some."

A smile grew on her face, and she wrapped her arms around Danny next to her. "I would love that, Danny! You are welcome here anytime! But," she held up a finger. "Don't leave Hiccup's hut without telling them first, alright? I don't want them to worry, looking all over the island for you."

Hiccup chimed in. "You know one of us would be happy to walk here with you, Danny."

[porcelcinarchived]

* " 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒎 𝒊 𝒔𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒏. "

( sarah gadon , cisfemale, she/her, 34 ) ** ♔ announcing ELSA JÖNSSON  THE QUEEN OF SWITZERLAND ! in a recent portrait they seem to resemble SARAH GADON. it is a miracle that SHE��survived the last five years and for that reason, they are FOR the kingdoms working together. reflecting on them now, they remind me of CARRYING YOUR HEART ON YOUR SLEEVE, SUNLIGHT BREAKING THROUGH THE NIGHT, WHISPERS OF OLD WOUNDS UPON YOUR SKIN, SECRETS HELD CLOSE TO YOUR HEART.

⊰  𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬 .

𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞. elsa lorienne jönssen 𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐧𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 . risa 𝐚𝐠𝐞. 34 , march 8 𝐬𝐞𝐱𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. bisexual 𝒕𝒊𝒕𝒍𝒆. queen of switzerland  𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬. sybil crawley ( downton abbey ), katara ( atla ), gilbert blythe ( anne with an e ) 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔.  compassionate, caring, altruistic, diligent  𝒏𝒆𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒔.  non-confrontational, fanciful, indulgent, mealymouthed

⊰  𝐛𝐢𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐡𝐲 .

☾ when you’re born, you know nothing but love. you’ve inherited your father’s smile and the softness of your mother’s love. you’ve always considered it a blessing but as you discover the cruelty of the world, you ask yourself, perhaps you’ve been better off if you never knew kindness.

☾  despite of growing up as the oldest, elsa knew nothing but love. although her parents’ marriage was one out of convenience, they were the exception of the rule and truly adored each other. they always wanted the best for their children and although they might have been strict at times, elsa knew that they only were when they needed to be.

☾ that’s why, she’d always been obedient. she knew that her parents only wanted the best for her and that she grew up with many privileges. her parents were known to be very charitable and elsa would often come with them, helping whenever it was needed and sometimes sneaking into their private libraries to get to know more ways to help each other.

☾ when her mother died, elsa felt like she had to take over the role of her mother. her father was broken at every heartbeat, her siblings still in need of a motherly figure. it wasn’t easy and sometimes she’d wish she could just be that little girl again asking her mother for help.

☾ she dreamed of doing more in life than simply becoming a wife. she wanted to help others wherever she could. but when her father told her that she’d marry, she knew that she had to prepare herself for her future duties. and perhaps sacrificing her own dreams was the most she could ever do. 

☾  truth to be told, even when she married into the swiss family, she still wore rose coloured glasses. for that reason, she expected her marriage to be as perfect as her parents’. however, reality would break her heart and her expectations and she never felt lonelier in her life.

☾ she tried everything she could, to be understanding and patient but as time passed she found herself more isolated and would end up traveling a lot and to distract her mind and heart. 

☾ she ended up seeing her personal guards more often than the king and the distance between her and her husband appeared to be even bigger. her heart was lonely and longing for a love that didn’t exist in her marriage, and when she found out about her pregnancy she knew that it wasn’t the king’s child.

☾ however, she couldn’t bring herself to speak the truth. more afraid of what would happen to her child when what happen to herself. she knew she committed a sin and that she had to live with it forever.

[ilovetheseattlemariners]

7 summers might be the best song ever written

Tomorrow the students from Japan leave. The cyclic nature of hosting students like this is quite sad: you meet someone, develop a deep connection with them, know it’ll never last longer than two weeks, and then say goodbye at the door with tears in your eyes. And then do it again. And part of me feels it’s kinda insincere, right? like all of these students must feel some deep connection and emotion with the time they spent with us and — maybe I’m just misanthropic and lack empathy — but each student becomes just a moment in the past and gets somewhat written over by their subsequent (dare I say) replacement. And I want it to be deep and meaningful to me. I want you to matter to me. I want to care and remember and love you still. It’s unfair. I’m sorry.

Anyways, these students are really young and it’s cute. It’s cute seeing my dad who normally bitches about anything and everything my mom does cuz of an overdue divorce be like paternal to them and smile and laugh — something my dad never does anymore. And it makes me want to have kids somewhat just to experience this again. I remember after mass I was talking to my cousin who I’d literally seen grow up; who I grew up with. And I repeatedly told her: “you aren’t going to be in the 10th grade, you’re going into grade 5. You aren’t going to be in grade 10, you’re going into grade 5.” Over and over and over and still as of writing this I’m incredulous. Stay as a memory in my past that I’ll never let go of.

My old ex was at mass too and she was making an active attempt to look away from me. Like look into the ground kind of obvious. Idk. There’s really no point for either of us to be in our lives any longer; and we aren’t in fact in either of our lives any longer. But I’d give so much to relive the honeymoon phase. To relive the phase where neither of us knew the other yet and we were just mass crushes and the subsequent meeting and courting and lovemaking which I dreamt about. I wrote about her in old journals. I threw her away, to be completely honest with you. But I cannot have her back. Even if the opportunity fell in my lap once more, I can’t be the man she wants. I can’t be a man any longer. That’s what I was feeling. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen and I can never, ever, ever be straight and I’m so sorry I wanted to love you forever so badly and I still do. And know that every day if you still think about it we still walk to the pier holding hands. I walked to that pier recently and I couldn’t force myself to go to our spot but I went close enough and the scent of the river was so strong and right now writing this is the experience of suffering from a fresh wound except it’s been months now. I miss you i miss you i miss you i miss you i miss you i miss you i miss you I write that I miss you and think of multiple people and I must be one of the shittiest people in the world and honestly yes I do deserve my lot.

Reading It’s lonely at the centre of the world(?) by zoe thorogood is the kind of perception that makes you want to vomit. I just want to be a woman and i suffer like her except I’m not a woman and that makes me suffer in an unexplored way that I might have to discover in art. Lord let me be forgotten by everyone in this life and let me forget everyone too so I can be made into a woman like you always intended. Amen amen alleluia.

[itsalwayswellattheworldsend]

Chapter 21 - Ralph Weareth Away Three Days Uneasily

Text Audio

Synopsis:

Ralph suffers three more days of waiting before finally deciding to leave and find the Lady, himself.

Summary:

"Truly it does my heart good to see thee: but thou poor boy, thou art wearing thyself with thy longing, and thy doubting, and if thou wilt do after my rede, thou wilt certainly go into the wood to-morrow and see what may befall; and indeed and in sooth thou wilt leave behind thee a trusty friend."

He read from the book again that night until he had gotten the whole story into his head, and he noticed that the book did not tell where the Lady had come from, who she was, or anything else except that she was in the woods by herself when the king’s son found her. Nor did the book tell what year of the world it was when she was found, though it told all about the wars and strife which her presence caused, and those lasted a long time. Also, he could not understand from the book why she would have gone back to that lonely place in the woods when she could have married one of the many powerful men who so desired her, nor why she allowed herself to be enslaved by the witch there, suffering the whippings and torture, like the lowest slaves of the ancient heathens. Lastly, he could not figure out where in the world that place was, or anything about the road to the Well at the World’s End. But as he was thinking about these things, his heart came back to this: “When I meet her, she will tell me everything; I don’t need to know than how to meet her and how to win her love, then she will show me the way to the Well at the World’s End, and I will drink from it and never grow old, just like how she lives in eternal youth, and we will love each other forever.”

He thought this, but amid his happy thoughts can in bad ones, because although the men-folk had spoken well of and worshiped the Lady, the women-folk feared her or hated her; even that lecherous old woman had praised the beauty of her body to torment him. So he thought about these things until he grew tired, and he went and laid down in his bed and slept, and dreamed of his days in Upmead, and things he had forgotten about in his waking life came and distracted him from his days of longing.

He got up early the next morning and when he had eaten his breakfast he asked the old woman to bring him his weapons.

“Are you going into the woods again?” she asked.

“Didn’t you tell me to go there yesterday?”

“Yes,” she said, “but today I’m worried that you might go and not come back.”

He laughed and said, “Don’t you see how I’m going on foot and in my armor? I can’t go far or fast like this. Also,” (and here his voice faltered a little), “where else would I go?”

“Ah,” she said, “but who knows what could happen?” Still, she got his armor and weapons and looked at him fondly as he put them on and left.

This time he entered the woods further south than he had the day before, and he went slowly like he had before, for he was still thinking over things from the night before, and they kept coming back. “If only I could see her! If only she loved me! Oh for a drink from the Well at the World’s End so our love could last on and on!”

So he went on for a while among the trees and thickets until it was a little past noon. But then a sudden panic came on him, afraid that she would return to the castle while he was out and—not finding him there—leave again to who-knows-where, and when this thought came to him he cried out and went back to the castle as quickly as possible, and came there breathless and tired.

He ran to the old woman and asked her, “Has she come? Has she come?”

The old woman laughed and said, “No, she hasn’t, but you’ve come, praise the saints! But what’s wrong? No, don’t worry, she’ll come eventually.”

Then Ralph grew embarrassed and turned away, calling himself a fool and a coward that could not wait for his lady in the place where she had led him. So he passed the rest of the day however he could—without leaving the castle again—and the old woman came and spoke with him, but whenever he asked about the lady, she would not tell him anything of importance, so he stayed away from that topic and made a show of listening when she spoke about other things, like the stories about the people of the land, and the Fathers of the Thorn, and so forth.

On the next morning he got up and said to himself that whatever happened, he would stay at the castle and the Plains of Abundance until the lady came, and he went among the hay harvesting folk in the morning and ate his lunch with them, and did his best to be happy, and likely the men and women thought he was pleasant company, but his heart was sore with longing and he could not stay in one place very long, so when the meal was over they returned to their work and he went back to the Castle, read from that book, looked at the pictures in it, and kept turning his feelings of wonder, hope, and fear over and over in his mind, telling himself stories of how his meeting with the Lady would go, what she would say to him and how he would answer her, until at last night came and he went to bed and slept, wearied by longing.

When the next day came he got up and went into the hall and found the old woman there, who said to him, “Fair sir, are you going to the wood again today?”

“No,” said Ralph, “I shouldn’t, I dare not.”

“Well,” she said, “You can if you’d like to; why wouldn’t you go?”

Ralph answered, reddening and stammering: “Because I’m afraid to; I’ve gone far from the castle three times and all has gone well, but what if the fourth time she comes back and finds me gone?”

The old woman laughed: “Well, I will be here if you go, for I promise that I won’t leave the house while you’re away.”

“No, I’ll stay here.”

“Yes,” she said, “I see: you don’t trust me. Well, it doesn’t matter, and it will be convenient if you stay here today, for I have an errand to my brother—my actual brother, though he is one of the brothers of the Thorn over there. If you will let me go, it’d be very helpful.

Ralph was glad when he heard this, deciding that if she left him alone there, he would be less tempted to wander into the woods again. Besides, he thought that the Lady might come that day when he was alone in the Castle, and it seemed to him that that would make the meeting even better. So he assented to the old woman’s request cheerfully, and in an hour’s time she was gone and he was alone there.

When Ralph saw her leave, he said to himself that he would be happier in the castle of his Lady if he were alone, and would spend the day more patiently because of it. But in truth, the hours of that day were the hardest of any day since he had come there. He did not leave the house at all that day, for he thought that the folk of the plains would notice that he seemed different and restless.

Throughout the day, he would read in the book, or flip through the pages without reading, and sometimes he would go into the Chamber of Estate and look at the woven pictures of the Lady, or he would wander from room to room, not knowing what to do.

At last, a little after dark, the old woman came back again and he met her at the door of the hall, for he was tired of his own company and endlessly thinking the same thoughts.

As for her, she was so happy to see him that she threw her arms around him and kissed and hugged him, as though she had been his actual mother. This embarrassed him some, but not much, for he felt that her good will towards him was plentiful, which it was.

Then she looked at him and said: “Truly it does my heart good to see you, but you, poor boy, you are wearing yourself out with longing and doubting, and if you follow my advice, you will go into the wood tomorrow and see what happens, and you will have left behind a trusted friend here.”

He looked at her kindly and smiled and said, “In truth, mother, I think you are right; though it will be hard for me to leave this house, which my Lady has had me come to. But I will do as you say.” She thanked him, and he went to his bed and slept, for now that he had made up his mind to leave, he rested easier.

Notes:

Another instance of “Upmead,” and more lower-case-L references to the Lady for some reason.

It’s odd to me that Ralph comes to the conclusion that the men all worship the Lady and the women all dislike her, when really he’s only spoken with two men about her, and only one woman (not counting the old woman who lives at the castle, who seems to like the Lady a great deal). He never got anything out of the lecherous old woman’s niece, and her stance on things seemed to be “all women are sluts, and the prettier they are the sluttier they are,” which to me makes her an unreliable source of information.

This is like the third time that the capital-T “Thorn” has been mentioned. The best that I can gather is that the local church in the Land of Abundance is dedicated to the Saint of Thorns (I believe that’s how they were called). I’m not sure who that is, as previously the old woman said that Ralph looked like them, but the only “saint of thorns” I seem to be able to find was a woman. The “Fathers of the Thorn” would be the priests of that church, I guess. It seems they also have monks.

The thing the old woman tells Ralph to do is to go into the woods and see what happens, but they both seem to automatically know this means “leave and go find adventure rather than waiting for the Lady.” I translated it as such without adding any explicit mentions of him leaving leaving, but I thought I’d point out that oddity here.

Map update to indicate that Ralph spent three more nights at the Castle of Abundance.

Map:

[le-panda-chocovore]

So the only situation that feels in-character would be that after Epic events, Odysseus lives a good life with Penelope and Telemachus. Then he grows old and leaves his throne to his son. Time passes and Penelope ends up dying from age but he lives a bit longer. Without his wife and with his son so busy, he feels lonely, regrets and screaming voices crawl back in his mind. So he goes to the sea where he spent so much years of his life when he was younger, and weirdly enough, the sound of waves and the smell of salt manages to calm him down. He thinks of his adventures, how dangerous they were, how alive he felt, and he knows he doesn't have much time left so he'd like to meet an old pal one last time. He goes into the sea without any fear. The God of Tides immediately feels it, comes to find him and stops him from drowning. Odysseus smiles when he opens his eyes in Poseidon's arms. So they talk. The tension and anger between them have long dissipated. Water is forever changing, the sea never holds the same water through the years. Every single person Odysseus was close to died, except one. His son is still alive but Telemachus grew up without him, Telemachus will outlive him, Telemachus doesn't know who Ody was before everything changed. The only being able to understand his pain is the god holding him close. And Poseidon is finally smiling at him, after all this time, finally gently stroking his skin instead of trying to rip it apart. Odysseus is an old man now, but to Poseidon a warrior who managed to make him beg still deserves the same respect whether he's 35 or 80yo. He treats Odysseus as the King he is, cares for him for the short time they have together, apologizes for hurting him and Odysseus says he has long forgiven him. He carries him on the sea, and makes him visit the islands he had seen before. This time the journey is completely different, no fight, no fear or dying, no men sacrificed. Just two lovers enjoying each other's company now that both of their hearts are finally at peace.

Anyway I found this fic and it's perfect. You should read it. (I was looking if someone have already written about this and turns out that yes, someone did, and it's beautiful)

Epic made Odysseus so faithful and dedicated to Penelope that it's impossible to ship him with anyone else and it's kind of frustrating. Sure Ody violently flirting with Poseidon to calm him down is hilarious but this would NEVER happen because this man has only one name in mind so any idea I can think of feels blatantly OOC and it's super frustrating

[waste-0f-spacee]

i just want to be a kid again.

[roosterbruiser]

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐕𝐈𝐈𝐈

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲 𝟐𝟒𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟗

There is an obsessiveness about Rooster, but it is not an unwelcome obsessiveness, nothing devient about it. When I sit in the lounge with the other aviators--some of them talking lowly and waiting with unshielded impatience and others trying to get some shut-eye on the brown couches--and listen to the radio during dogfights, his obsession for preservation is wildly apparent. The way he preserves his speed, preserves the safety of himself and others. He is a natural-born leader when he’s in the air and falls into the position easily, as easily as falling into bed at the end of a long day. 

I think this stems from the loss of his father, a freak accident that was never on anyone’s radar--the kind of accident that people don’t even think of happening because it was truly perfect conditions when it occurred. Maybe he’s obsessed with the preservation of his team because he remembers what it was like when his father died and his mother was left by herself to not only pick up the pieces but to raise Rooster all by herself, something she never agreed to. What a lonely life she must’ve had, when a piece of herself was missing, gone forever, with no goodbye. A wound that never healed. And when I think this, my throat aches because it is how I feel about myself, my life--Maggie gone, my life emptier than it was supposed to be.

Sometimes, when I catch him looking down at the watch that I know was his father’s or when I pass Memorial Hall and Rooster is standing before Goose’s portrait with a deep want pulsing in his body, I want to tell him that I know what his mother must have felt like. I want to tell him that I lost a part of myself, too, and I never got to say goodbye. Maggie and Goose died similarly--in front of the person that loved them most, their life forever stalled right there in that horrifying moment. I want to tell him that I wish there was a part of Maggie, even if it was only half of her, that I could hold close and watch breathe and sneeze and hiccup and cry and laugh and grow. I want to tell Rooster that he probably saved his mother, unknowingly, his entire life. 

I don’t tell him this, though. I don’t tell him because even if there is an invisible string connecting us, even if things have been far too perfect, even if things have been frightfully easy for us, even if our time together has felt like a dream--I don’t know him the way I wish I did. 

“I feel like you know a part of myself that I don’t even know yet,” he had told me that very first night he came to my house, when Stevie was on his lap and the tequila was fading and he was creeping into my body. 

And I feel like he’s obsessed with me--with my home, with my cat, with my opinion. 

“I just--I want Admiral Simpson to respect me,” I’d told Bob, the styrofoam of my empty coffee cup partially destroyed beneath the wrath of my freezing fingers, “his approval means a lot to me. And, like, he was the one that picked me up by the bootstraps and I don’t want anyone to think that I’m just like--that I’m just like fucking a random pilot in the dorms or that I’m fucking--fuck, like multiple pilots or--!” 

Bob’s laughter, a dry and quiet kind of laughter, interrupted me. I blushed bright baby pink--I had a tendency to ramble when upset, especially when it was with someone I was comfortable with, and honestly--especially if it was Bob. 

He was reclined on the ugly brown couch in the lounge, which was both remarkably empty and remarkably bright, sunshine glimmering off every surface brightly. Bob had his own cup of coffee, half-full, which he sipped as I spoke. 

“Faye, you should give yourself more credit. Sure, you had some help when you were down, but ultimately you made the decision to get back up. Right?” 

I looked at his eyes, his earnest blue eyes that had never been anything but. His glasses were pristine, which I knew was because of the piece of velvet he kept in his pockets at all times to cleanse them, and his hair was brushed and neatly gelled. And his mouth, which was smiling softly, had never said anything even resembling unkind. 

He had played this part before many times, either talking Maggie out of fucking an army boy with a dirty mouth or trying to ease my worries about an upcoming assignment. And he had played the part of listener more than anything, nodding and smiling or frowning, reaching a consoling hand at the right moment. He was just plain good at being there, just plain good at listening. 

“Right,” I mumbled, but then I thought of my underwear in the pocket of Rooster’s flightsuit and then I was blushing all over again, “maybe I just shouldn’t mess around on base anymore.” 

He nodded, smiling with his nose crinkled. 

“That might be a good idea,” he said, “and maybe you shouldn’t tell anyone about it except for me. You know, just until you know what’s happening for sure, right?” 

I nodded rapidly. 

“You’re right, you’re so right. Bob…do you know why they call him Rooster?”

Bob had genuinely cocked his head then, leaning forward slightly with a question written all over his face. He was earnestly wondering, waiting for me to tell him why. 

He paused there for a long moment, looking up at me as I smiled guiltily, swallowing my laughter. And I watched his face fall then contort to a look of childlife embarrassment. His mouth opened and closed and then his eyes fluttered to his coffee cup, his cheeks blushed deeply. 

“I had to, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Maggie just possessed me.” 

Bob took a drink from his cup, shaking his head, smiling now. He was still very red. 

“Evidently so.” 

Ever since our encounter in his dorm, ever since Bob saved us from being caught by anyone else in the squadron, we have not so much as kissed each other on the job. I had told Rooster some of my conversation with Bob that evening, about my concerns with professionalism, my desire to keep work at work and home at home.

And he listened, nodded, then smiled. 

“Whatever you want,” he told me, “you call the shots, Lieutenant Ledger.”

But now that we are measuring our glances on base and only ghosting our fingers over each other when no one else is around to see, he is on my doorstep every single night, the Bronco parked right beside my car. I welcome him into my home each evening, never stopping to pause my record or the dinner on the stove. 

And then I’ll hurry back to the kitchen, my body flushed already, and he will put his bag in its unofficial-official location in my closet right beside my empty suitcases. Then he’ll make a pit-stop by the ottoman to pet Stevie for a few minutes, inhaling my home and dinner on the stove or in the oven. Then he comes through my kitchen doors-- with that fucking smile under his mustache and he’s wearing a t-shirt that hugs his body and his eyes are soft with sleep and his shoulders are practically glued to his ears with the stress of the mission--and sees me in my slippers and with my hair in a clip and my hands messy with flour or meat. And we just look at each other, drinking each other in for the first time, pretending like our stolen glances at work never happened at all. 

Then he’ll kiss me, wrap his arms around my waist and watch me whisk parmesan into an alfredo sauce or take steamed broccoli off a burner. And his body is so perfectly molded to mine that I want to let everything burn, want to just sink into his body and live in his arms forever. I want to just give up and let him carry me through life. 

But instead, I’ll kiss his shoulder and ask him if he wants a glass of wine at dinner. 

He kisses the top of my head before he grabs the wine glasses, which he found one evening while searching my cabinets and drawers out of an untamable wave of curiosity. And when I’m busy grabbing a loaf of bread from the stove or my hands are massaging kale, he will flip the record or pick a new one when the static at the end of a record curses through the speakers. 

And then when we eat dinner at the table and I’ve lit taper candles and finally turned the music down, he pulls my chair out for me and never starts eating until I’ve taken the first bite. He will ask me a million questions, internalizing every bit of our workday just for that moment--asking me what I thought when Hangman said this or when Maverick did that.

He has sunk comfortably into this repetition and I think that as much as he does this because he wants to, it is also maybe because I told him about my deep love for rigid routines. 

Right now it is a Wednesday and the sun is thinking about setting, falling deeper into the sky as it fades to an orange-gold. The clouds dotting the sky are beginning to pinken around the edges and the breeze is sweet and cool. It is maybe the coolest it has been all summer--all the windows in my house are open and the curtains are billowing softly. I have even lit incense so my house smells like patchouli and lavender. 

It is heading towards six in the evening and there is a sheet of carrots roasting in the oven, two chicken breasts sizzling in rosemary and olive oil on the stove, and raw cookie dough wrapped in the fridge to chill. 

I am leaning against the kitchen counter, biting my lip, straining to remember if the dough needs to be chilled overnight when my phone buzzes on the counter. 

Tramp: Grabbing a few bottles of that wine you like. Need anything else for dinner? Dessert? 

Me: Got it all covered here. Brown butter chocolate chip cookie dough is chilling now :) 

Me: Thanks for the wine, too. Trying to get into my pants or something? 

Tramp: Says the one with cookies baking…

Tramp: ;)

I can’t help the grin that is fighting its way to my lips, the blood that rushes straight to my head whenever I see his stupid nickname appear on my lockscreen. Fucking Rooster. 

I cross the kitchen and step into the living room, which smells like outside. The trees, the grass, the mud, the crisp evening air. Stevie is blinking at me from her usual spot, perched very still and silently. I only have to look at my collection for a moment before I know what I want to play. 

ABBA’s Voulez-Vous album starts as I walk back through the kitchen door. It smells like rosemary and garlic in here and the chicken is beginning to brown when I peer over the pan. It smells like Sunday nights when Maggie was alive--when I would make anyone in our squadron dinner in my old apartment, squeezing everyone into my living room and shooing everyone out of my galley kitchen when they attempted to help me. It reminds me of the four or five bottles of wine--all my favorite brand of prosecco--that would end up in my fridge because no one dared to show up empty-handed. 

I used to keep my records in wooden crates back then, stacked on top of each other under my thrifted record player. And everyone would take a crate and sift through, pulling records they wanted to listen to. And inevitably, Maggie would pick a Fleetwood Mac album and get everyone up and dancing while I minced garlic and mashed potatoes. I never felt left out--I used to live for those moments. Moments where everyone danced around my old coffee table and Bob warned everyone that they were being too loud and Maggie pretended like she knew how to read palms. When we would eat on the floor, sitting on couch cushions and balancing our plates on our knees. When we were all very young and nothing felt permanent.

And right now the music is so loud, loud like it was in my apartment all those years ago--the song Angeleyes is playing--that I almost don’t hear the front door open and close. I almost don’t hear Rooster mockingly crooning, “Honey, I’m home!” when he steps into the foyer. I almost don’t hear the brown paper bag in his arms rustle as he tries to take his boots off with no hands. I almost don’t hear it all, but I do. 

So when he’s standing in my entryway with my big wooden door locked behind him, dressed in jean shorts and an old UVA sweatshirt with his aviators pushing back into his curls and he’s singing along to ABBA under his breath, I am standing at the top of the stairs, smiling. 

It isn’t until he starts for the stairs that he notices me. He pauses, his feet scissored on different steps, and his eyes fall to my slippered feet and climb up, up my body until they’re resting on mine. The fist, the one that lives deep inside me, is clenching every muscle in my chest. This is how it goes when he sees me--his lips part before they break into a grin, his eyes glaze over with that look of devotion and affection, his body tenses and relaxes at the same time but in vastly different ways. 

When I see him for the first time in my home and not on base, my entire body feels like a San Diego summer: like golden sunshine and endless blue skies, like melted ice cream and scorching asphalt. I am blushing when I think about his mustache and how wet I want it to be, how soon I want his head between my legs again, how badly I want his body against mine. 

“You really are stupid pretty, Faye,” Rooster sighs, shaking his head thoughtfully, “I mean--just look at you, baby.” 

I have to roll my eyes to pretend like my stomach isn’t sitting in my chest. Fuck. 

“Give me my wine,” I smile, then add lowly, “tramp.”

He tsks softly and ascends the stairs expeditiously, hand coming to rest on my lower back. The paper bag rustles between us as he presses his chest against mine, grinning down at me so sweetly that I make a mental note to schedule a teeth cleaning. 

“Gimme some sugar,” he says. 

And if any other man on the planet had said that to me, me right now at my big age of twenty-six-years-old, I would have laughed them right out the door. But when he says it with his dark-colored eyes and his glimmering lips and his mustache and his sultry body pressed against me, I can do nothing but press my mouth against his. And I am not sure if I will ever get used to kissing him--his mustache tingling the space between my mouth and nose, his tongue faintly running across my bottom lip, his nose pressed against the side of my own. 

If he pressed his lips to one of my pulse-points and felt just how badly he makes my heart race, I would be done for. 

When he pulls away from my mouth, his scorching breath fans over my skin that’s already growing damp at the thought of his mouth on me. He sprinkles kisses to my chin and jaw and my cheeks and my neck and I am already gasping for air, pulling him closer. 

“Wait,” I say breathlessly, smiling with my chest flushed, “chicken! Gonna burn!” 

And he lets me go and I fall back, empty, wishing he could just hold me all the time and I would never feel alone. He’s grinning at me, looking around the house at the open windows and incense and Stevie on her ottoman. And just as I am about to step into the kitchen, he gently holds my hair in his hands and tugs one time so I’m turning to him again. Then he holds both my cheeks in his hands, thumbs rubbing those familiar soft circles, and looks down at me. 

“This is the best part of my day,” he says and even though his voice is teasing, his face is not. His eyes are serious and his mouth is smiling but honest. 

And maybe he means that the best part of his day is coming home to my house, which feels like his now, and eating my dinner and buying me wine and washing our dishes and listening to records and making me cum. But maybe because of who I am or who he is, or because he’s 35 and I’m 26, I know that he means holding me, seeing me is the best part of his day.

I hold his wrists and they’re very solid and warm beneath my palms. I think I could hold them forever. And then I move his left palm to my lips, guiding it with my grip. I kiss him one time there, in the middle of his open hand, batting my eyelashes at him. His lips part and I watch his breath get caught in his throat.

“Hold that for me, will you?” I whisper to him. 

I close my fingers around his left hand and curl his fingers into a fist. Then I kiss his middle knuckle before turning away and going through the kitchen door. Without turning around, I know he watches my moving figure--his mouth still open slightly--until the door closes on me. 

It’s something my mother used to do with me and Maggie. I don’t know why I did it, why it has made my chest ache so badly--but I know that a certain nostalgic glee is climbing all the way up, up, up my throat. I had forgotten all about that and remembered so suddenly when I brought his palm to my mouth. 

Everything is so easy in our evenings. Once his bag is put away and he has greeted Stevie, he stands behind me, kissing my throat and holding my hips against his. 

“Smells incredible,” he mumbles against my skin. 

His jaw fits perfectly in the slope of my body where my neck gives into my shoulder. The weight of his head feels very normal, very safe--like wearing an apron when I cook, like putting gloves on in the winter, like taking a warm shower on cold mornings. 

“Thank you,” I say softly, “set the table, yeah?” 

“Aye-aye, Lieutenant.” 

Even all this is easy--he somehow has memorized where everything is in my kitchen. He knows which wine glasses I prefer and which plates are for everyday use and which ones are saved for special occasions. He knows where I keep linen napkins and silverware and trivets. He whistles the entire time he sets my sweet dining room table, smiling like it’s the only thing in the world he wants to do. 

“Let me get that,” he says, slipping a spare pair of oven mitts on before he opens the oven and retrieves the roasted carrots. 

He grins at me as he sets them on a trivet on the island. I want to faint. I want to cry. 

When we sit down to eat, each plated with a chicken breast and a heaping of roasted carrots and pieces of buttery sourdough, the song Lovers (Live A Little Longer) is playing. Just like always, he waits until I take a bite of chicken before he starts in on his food. It is an unspoken thing, something I’ve noticed because I watch him through my lashes. 

“You missed your calling,” Rooster says, nodding at his plate, “I don’t even like carrots.” 

This is what he does everytime I make him dinner and I know that it’s because his mother raised him with manners. He always opens the door for women, always acknowledges a new presence in the room, always makes sure I finish first. But his eyes are gleaming so prettily, so honestly that I know beneath those manners that he was raised with--he is just being painfully honest. 

“Heard Maverick talked to the Big Guy,” I say, meaning Ice. 

Rooster nods, exhaling from his nose. He shovels a bite into his mouth and sits back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. We are sitting across from each other, his back to one of the doors to the living room and my back against a warm window. 

“Hope he ripped him a new one,” Rooster says confidently. 

I take a sip of prosecco and it’s bubbly and dry on my tongue. He’s watching me and I set my elbows on the table before giving him a very small shrug. 

“You’re hard on him,” I say slowly, metering my tone and phrasing, “I’m sure it’s warranted. Is it?” 

Rooster is looking past me now. He is nodding slowly, biting his lips, thinking of what to say to me next. I take another bite. 

He answers while I’m chewing, “We have a history.” 

Another sip of prosecco and his eyes find mine. I’m smiling teasingly, cutting another bite for myself. He’s watching me with his hands on either side of his plate. 

“Mysterious,” I whisper, but don’t press. 

He chuckles. 

“Hangman’s got a thing for you,” Rooster says, adopting my teasing smile, “making goo-goo eyes at you all day today. Puffing up his chest, practicing his cock-walk.” 

“I thought only rooster’s did that?” 

I bite my lip when he narrows his eyes into mine. 

“I think I even heard him ask Bob about you,” he teases, nonchalantly shrugging. 

“And what did he ask Bob?” 

A beat passes. Rooster is teasing me. It makes me giddy. I remain composed, though--lips on the surface of my wine glass, fork resting softly in my left hand. 

“If you were looking for a new pilot,” he answers finally. 

Then a stone sinks in my belly. And I don’t mean for it to happen but my face drops, drops like my heart in my chest, like my eyes dropping from Rooster’s to the taper candle instead. I can feel it--the gloss over my eyes, the slack in my brow, the frown pulling my lips, the blush creeping out of my cheeks and into my hands--and I can feel Rooster stiffen across from me. 

I can’t help it and I don’t want it to happen and I don’t mean for it to happen, but I think about the day Maggie died. I think about trekking through the snow and the gnarly tree roots and mud until I found her on the forest floor, lying on her back in the tuft of her parachute. And from far away, I wondered if she was just sleeping, just hit her head and lost consciousness on the way down. But when I came closer, stood above her and saw her unmoving eyes and her bloody scalp and her contorted limbs--I knew that she was dead. I think about our jet that exploded in the air and the twenty-mile radius our shrapnel covered. I think about how I laid beside her, somewhere between awake and asleep, somewhere between alive and dead for eleven hours before my ESAT turned on. I don’t remember moving my fingers to it, don’t remember turning it. It was off and then it was on and Search and Rescue was hovering above me. 

I look up at Rooster and smile again, pretending like there are no tears dotting the corners of my eyes, pretending like I’m not choking back a lump in my throat. Pretending like I’m not thinking about Maggie’s body.

He’s across from me, his plate abandoned, hands holding either side of the table like he’s getting ready to push himself up and come to me. He doesn’t soften when I smile--his eyes search mine like he’s looking for some kind of injury, like he thinks my wounds are visible. External. 

“Already found myself a pilot,” I say, but my voice cracks. 

I take another drink and start cutting my chicken again. 

“What happened just now?” 

His confidence never ceases to amaze me, to knock the breath out of my mouth. He will bring to light any part of a conversation, mention any look or expression and press about it. And lying to him, skirting around something he’s curious about--it’s futile.

“You know I’m never going to fly again, right?” 

I say this without looking up. 

He breathes. His hands are still framing his plate, curled into soft fists. 

“I guess I didn’t know that,” he says, “I thought eventually you would get back up there.” 

This isn't like falling off a horse. You don’t just pull yourself up by the bootstraps and hop back on. Maybe it would be like that if a horse stomped my sister to death and dragged her around a loose-dirt arena for hours. 

“Nope,” I say, trying to sound casual, trying so hard to blink my tears away, “I’m fine where I am.” 

And usually when I tell people this, they shift uncomfortably, but nod. Usually when I tell people this, they aren’t Naval Aviators and they don’t really understand the brevity of what I’ve said. Usually people just assume I won’t get back up there. 

But not Rooster. 

“Doesn’t that feel kind of like a waste?” 

When he asks this, his voice is even and steady. He is not being malicious, never is. He is just asking me a question over the dinner I made for us, at the table he set. 

I cross my arms before my plate and meet his eyes. The taper candles are burning lower and lower, wax melting onto the clay holders. I search his face--his open eyes, his neutral mouth. 

“A waste of what? Naval resources? Training?” 

I wish I didn't sound bitter, but I do. 

He doesn’t flinch. 

“Talent,” he answers. 

Just like that, he’s knocked me off my feet again. Sometimes I am ready for a fight--my tone dripping in bitterness, the stone in my belly growing steadily until it’s a fucking boulder and compressing my lungs. Sometimes I am already putting up the defense, balling my fists, narrowing my eyes. Maybe I’m protecting my peace--maybe I’m protecting my open wounds. 

I square my jaw. He’s still watching me softly. The record has finished and turns emptily. I cannot stand the silence. 

“I’m gonna pick a new record,” I whisper, balling my linen and putting it on the table. 

He doesn’t move from his spot, but his eyes follow me all the way past the table and out to the living room. When the door shuts behind me, shields me from Rooster, I have to hold my knees and take a deep, deep breath. 

Somehow he is the first person that has ever challenged me that way--somehow he is the first person who has argued with me without actually arguing with me.

“Fuck,” I whisper, searching the shelf for a new record, hastily wiping the bitter tears from my cheeks. 

The windows are still open and the sun is setting finally and the room glows orange. I graze my fingers over the records, shaking a little bit. I hastily turn on Seasons of Your Day by Mazzy Star and let a few seconds of In the Kingdom play while I wipe my cheeks hastily. I think of Bob’s teasing words; no crying in the Navy.

I walk back into the kitchen and Rooster hasn’t resumed eating. It makes me ache. I want to touch him, his shoulder, but I feel too fucked up suddenly. Like I have witnessed things people shouldn’t and it has permanently damaged me--damaged my heart and the way I feel things. 

Like he knows this, he reaches out and holds my wrist as I am passing him to my own plate. His fingers hold my wrist securely, but not tightly. He is begging me, silently, to look at him. That’s all it takes to make my head turn. His face looks like the word please. He’s begging me, begging me. 

“The wound is still fresh,” I say, sounding less bitter and more sad, “and you didn’t say anything wrong, but I just--I just won’t fly again. There’s not even a question. I just…can’t. I can’t, Bradley. I won’t.” 

He is nodding and shaking his head almost at the same time, lips parted. He pulls me closer to him by the wrist until I’m sitting on his knee. He wraps his arms around my torso--my arms, my waist--and secures his hands in my lap as he kisses my hair and neck. 

“I didn’t mean to fight you,” he tells me, “you don’t have to explain yourself, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, baby.” 

“You didn’t know,” I whisper, “I’m not mad at you. It just…hurts still.” 

A beat passes and he rests his nose on my neck, pushing through my hair. 

“Where does it hurt, honey?” 

For a moment, all I can hear is the flickering candle, Mazzy Star, and Rooster’s breath mirroring my own. He tightens his arms around me and I lean back just enough to straighten my back, giving him more of my weight. His legs, his glorious thighs, split so I sit lower on him. I rest my cheek against his forehead, heart steady. 

“Here,” I say, pointing to my chest. 

Like I’m nothing, like the laws of gravity are not applicable to me, he scoops me up in his arms tightly. I stiffen, but then he’s kissing the side of my neck and standing, carrying me to the living room. It’s almost completely dark now. 

He lays me down on the rug, hovering over me as I lay very still, very compliant. 

“Here?” he asks, pointing to the same spot I had pointed to. 

I bite my lip and nod and his head comes down slowly. He presses his lips to the middle of my chest, over my heart, and lingers there just breathing into my knit sweater. His hands are on either side of my arms and he keeps his face there a moment longer, pressing another quick kiss before he comes up to look at me. 

I’m trying very hard not to cry. 

“Where else?” He asks and he means it and I know he’s really asking me what happened to me? What happened to me when my sister died? Why won’t I fly again? 

With shaking fingers, I point to the scar on my jaw. The tree branch. 

He wastes no time, moving up to press slow, sensual kisses along the entire scar. It is a jagged one, white now, but used to be bright pink on my face. It starts almost at my ear and runs all along my jawline, stopping at the point of my chin. My face is hot.

“Where else?” He mumbles against my skin. 

His mustache prickles me, feels so good.

“My vocal cords,” I whisper, “they were bruised. From…” 

I can’t make myself say it. Bruised from screaming, screaming my sister’s name, wailing like a banshee when I saw her dead body on the parachute. 

He doesn’t ask. He kisses all along my throat, his right hand holding my waist. 

“The pressure--it burst my eardrum on my right side.” 

 He moves up slowly, sprinkling an abundance of warm kisses on my ear.

I point to my forehead. My concussion. 

“I hit my head coming down, too.” 

His lips are there again and he’s still holding me tight under him. 

“I was so confused,” I whisper to him, “I would get lost driving around my hometown. I would get lost on base.” 

He nods, still kissing my head. 

“Tell me everywhere it hurt, baby,” he whispers. 

“Here,” I say pointing to my right shoulder, “dislocated when I punched out.” 

His hair tickles me when his lips come down on my shoulder. 

“And I had frostbite on both my hands. Moderate. All my fingers.” 

He sits up and moves so he is straddling me. I love his weight on top of me. It makes me want to close my eyes, put up my hands, and fall asleep. He’s looking down at me with very soft, very serious eyes. He takes my right hand, never breaking his eyes away from mine, and kisses the tips of each of my fingers. I am the one that has to close my eyes--I feel like I”m burning up, I feel like I’m on fire. 

Common Burn is playing. 

“Look at me, honey,” he whispers, picking my left hand up, “wanna see your pretty eyes. Pretty, brown eyes.” 

When I open my eyes, he’s kissing my left fingers--starting at my thumb and ending on my pinkie. My chest is almost heaving now. 

“Here,” I point to my left wrist, “sprained.” 

He pulls my left wrist to his mouth and kisses all the way around it, holding my open hand against his face so he can kiss my palm. And he doesn’t say it, doesn’t say anything, but closes my fingers softly so I am holding his kiss. Here, hold this for me, would you?

“Four ribs on my left side,” I tell him, “the tree.” 

So he finally lowers himself, his fingers pulling at the hem of my sweater, nudging it up and up until my skin gooses in the crisp air conditioning. I almost squirm at the feeling of his lips there, but instead I just close my eyes. Wasn’t it enough that I’d lost my sister? Wasn’t it enough that I’d watched her die? I was in so much genuine pain after she died, physically and emotionally and mentally. That’s how the vicodin had started--very seriously, very truthfully. I needed to not feel the ache in my ribs and the throb in my head and the scabs on my fingers. 

He lays his cheek on my naked belly and my fingers find his hair almost entirely on instinct. He relaxes into me and I hold him there against me. 

“Can I tell you something without you looking at me differently?” 

“Differently?” he asks softly. 

I screw my eyes shut. 

“Pitying me.” 

He nods, kissing the space between my ribs. I stare at the ceiling again. 

“When you have a twin…sometimes you can feel what they do,” I start and he stiffens against me, bringing his eyes to the underside of my jaw, “and I felt everything Maggie did. All the good parts--when she was happy, when she was in love. I knew what she was thinking and she knew what I was thinking, too. But I felt the bad parts, too--I knew when she was blushing and when she had a pimple coming on.” 

I take a deep breath and Rooster holds me tighter, like he knows what I’m going to say. 

“And so I felt it when she died,” I say calmly, breathing through my nose. 

And I’m going to say more, can feel the words dribbling up my throat, but I don’t. Nobody in the world needs to know what I felt that day. When her bladder released. When she screamed my name. When she cried all the way down. When she thrashed as her cords snapped. When she hit the ground. 

“Oh, Faye,” Rooster coos. 

He thinks about what to say and I know it’s because he wants to say, you poor baby.

“I’m so glad you’re alive.” 

I feel like he’s just pushed me off a skyscraper. Like I’m falling through the air, really free-falling, flailing. Like the wind has been knocked out of me. Because doesn’t he know that I wanted to be dead for a long time after she died? That I was barely keeping myself alive? That I never thought I would feel as happy as I do right now with him on top of me in my living room, on my rug, dinner forgotten and taper candles melting? Doesn’t he know that?

My mouth is dry. 

“You know, if I ever got into a jet again,” I started, sighing, “I would never fly with Hangman.” 

And then we are laughing, his chest rumbling against the flat part of my hips and my legs. His breath is hot on my bare skin and I want to stay here always. 

“Who would you fly with?” 

I pretend to think, feeling the blush evading my cheeks and chest. 

“Phoenix, probably,” I whisper. 

He groans against me while I laugh. 

“You’re breaking my heart over here, honey!”

Then we just lay there, on the floor. The wind blows gently into the room, tickling the exposed skin of my belly that Rooster’s hand is splayed over. He’s stroking me, just like he always does, and letting his head rest on my breasts. I’m playing with his hair, looking up at the ceiling with dry eyes. There is an uncertain weight rendering from my body and seeping into the rugs below me. My heart feels bigger than before. 

“Remember our first date?” He asks. 

I stifle a laugh. 

“What do you consider our first date?” 

He sighs into my skin, holding me tighter. 

“Flat Rock Beach,” he says softly, “cherry wine, figs.”

My throat feels tight. I nod, keep his hair between my fingers, keep holding him to me. 

“‘Course I do,” I whisper, “it was eight days ago.” 

He pinches my skin softly and I bite my lip. He moves so his chin is resting on my breast now, digging slightly into the soft tissue there. It’s so close to hurting me, but not close enough for me to tell him to move. I think even if he was hurting me, I would never push him away from me. 

“And remember when you told me to be angry?” 

I pull my brow together, biting a smile. 

“Yes,” I whisper. 

“Can I tell you what makes me angry--you know, give a little part of it away.” 

I am a puddle again, here on the floor. The lines on his forehead are faintly pressed into his skin when he brings his eyebrows together very slightly, just pinches them together as his eyes narrow. 

“Always.” 

He sighs before he says it and I can feel his pulse start to race on my thigh. 

“Maverick pulled my papers from the Naval Academy.” 

And I can see it with my own eyes--see the uncertain weight rendering and leaking onto my body from his. I want to take it in my hands and keep it safe, keep it with me. He doesn’t have to carry it anymore. 

My chest is tight. 

“Why would he do that?” I ask softly, raking my hands through his curls. 

Despite himself, his eyes slip shut and he sighs, leaning into my touch. It’s like whenever I touch him, he has no choice but to relax. It makes me want to kiss him all over. 

“I don’t know,” he whispers, “it was all I had left and he took it away from me. It took four years off my career, Faye. Four years.” 

I frown. Poor baby. I want to pity him. Instead, I sigh, keeping my fingers in his hair, keeping his chin on my breast. 

“He was close with your father,” I say and his eyes find mine, “wasn’t he?” 

He knows that I heard everything Hangman had said in the training room. Maverick was flying when Goose died.

“They were best friends,” Rooster whispers, his voice breaking very softly. 

I nod. 

“Maybe he didn’t want to lose you, Bradley.” 

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: listen...................I am a puddle of mush at this point. and so, so mentally ill. kisses!!

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫